


Malachite Green

by labocat



Series: Indelible Stains [2]
Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: M/M, Mafia AU, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-07
Updated: 2012-12-07
Packaged: 2017-11-20 13:39:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/585964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/labocat/pseuds/labocat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He heard the slow intake of breath in his ear, could all but see the way he knew Midorima was aligned with the rifle, an extension of his body.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>Three...two...one.</i></p><p>A side piece for the Indelible Stains AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	Malachite Green

There's something beautiful about the way Midorima Shintarou shoots, the way he holds the rifle as if it were an extension of his body, the way his body subtly shifts to be more in line with it, molding himself to it.

Sometimes Takao jokes that he sleeps with it at night, just for practice to keep the feel of it. Sometimes Takao jokes that it's his security blanket.

Sometimes Takao's right.

"Stop fingering the trigger, I'll get there when I get there. Shin-chan, you're so impatient." It's Takao's job to set up the shot, Midorima's to actually shoot. He never misses, but Takao takes comfort in the fact that if he didn't lure their targets into a false sense of safety, bring them out into the open, then their twitchy targets would still be walking, talking, interfering. But it's an art, the subtle draw of a target, using what he was, what he has available, to get them to stop looking over their shoulders, up at each window, at overhangs, and to look at him. At the grin on his face, the sway of his hips, the way he looks only at them, his eyes never flicking to where he knows Shin-chan is waiting, watching them.

As soft as it is, Takao can hear the small scoff through his earpiece. "Try not to be so slow this time. It's unbecoming to take so long for so simple a task, honestly." 

"Aww, you're worried about me. How cute, Shin-chan. How cute, honestly."

"Don't imitate me. And don't be silly. Just be there."

"I will be. I'll make it so fast today we might even make it to the bistro before it closes."

He can all but see Midorima shift, adjust his glasses, biting back a comment because he was actually pleased. Working with him for so long, watching him day in and day out, his habits are ingrained in Takao's sight. He can see each last one of them when he closes his eyes - the white taping along Midorima's fingers, the way he strokes or holds the day's lucky item, the soft concentration when he's assembling his rifle or cleaning his equipment, or the serious, intense glare from behind his glasses. 

"Just be there."

"I got it the first time. Oh, start the timer, because here comes the mark." Takao's face shifts, his eyes softening as he drops the sharp analytical gaze that earned him a spot in the ranks. His entire body language changes - not as much as say, Kise, the master of cons and getting people to all but lay at his feet - but enough that he seems more vulnerable, more lost. It was the first trick he'd learned, even before joining Teikou. His mark comes into view for the first time, a contrast of trying to look like she was powerful, in control, and furtive glances around, examining the crowd for unfriendly faces. It's easy to slip into said crowd, to tail her for a few steps before bumping into her, knocking them both to the ground.

"Oh no, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry ma'am, I wasn't watching where I was going, oh-."

The crowd parts around them, no one wanting to stop and help, more interested in getting where they're going. Takao counts on this. He also counts on the woman he's bumped into - Hanagawa Kyoko, CFO of one of the largest corporations in the city, responsible for funneling millions of yen under the table to underground organizations in an attempt to bribe and empower them into being able to take Teikou down - being vain enough to catch his pause and actually talk to him, instead of pushing aside his help and continuing on. He's right.

"Oh? Oh what? If you're going to be so rude as to knock me to the ground, you should at least finish your apology."

He laughs a little sheepishly, rubbing one hand behind his head, playing up the childish and clumsy image. "Sorry, sorry, I was just going to say you were really pretty, but then you were just so pretty that you took my breath away." A huff in his ear tells him exactly what Midorima thinks of his lines, but there's a reason their positions are what they are.

Hanagawa gets up off the ground, and instantly groans. "Look at what you did! These nylons are completely ruined." She's right; a run in her nylons, from ankle to knee, as well as a small bloodspot where her knee was scraped, have ruined them for any further wear. Takao was counting on this as well, knowing the sidewalks in the area are rough.

"Let me clean that up for you, it's the least I can do! Please!" There's a bench nearby, away from the crowds, in perfect sightline from where he knows Midorima is positioned. He sits her down and pulls a pack of tissues out from his bag, wetting them and cleaning her knee. If he's on his knees, he leaves her head clear for the shot. He imagines the line of Midorima's shoulders, relaxing as he shifts the rifle, breathing with each movement. Calm. Concentrated.

In his ear, he hears a long intake of breath.

_Three…two…one._

He keeps looking down, dabbing at Hanagawa's knee until he feels the hot splash of droplets of blood against his face. There aren't many - the shot was too clean for that, but it's enough that he looks up, the cold flash of his eyes the only indication she'll have that he was in on it (if she's even still alive. Doubtful - Shin-chan is too good a shot for that) before they widen and he screams. A thin line of blood slides from the bullet hole down her temple, dripping off her cheek as she topples sideways. Now everyone is looking at them, and he plays it perfectly, clutching the sleeves of people close by, begging them to call the police, an ambulance, anything. 

"Meet me at the bistro in fifteen and I might buy." He knows it's impossible to get there so soon; there are people to continue to rile up, police to convince he had nothing to do with it, just another corner boy who picked the wrong client - how was he supposed to know that she was being targeted by the mafia? - before he can get over to the bistro. Not to mention the blood on his face and clothes now.

He knows Midorima is still watching through the sight of his rifle, and he makes a small, rude, hand gesture. He gets a scoff in return, then the silence of the channel being closed.

Regardless, there is food waiting for him when he gets home. He hasn't had a chance to change or even wash yet, but Midorima seems to take no notice of that. His fingers are taped again, and the thought that he'd like to take them off, unwind the taping slowly with either fingers or teeth, races through Takao's mind. He's distracted from accomplishing this by the touch of Midorima's tongue to his cheek, kissing and licking at the bloodstains that linger there.

Some would call it disgusting, unsanitary, but Takao recognizes it for what it is - recognition of a job well done, acknowledgement of their teamwork. Acknowledging that Takao is worthy to stand beside him. 

It ignites something in him, every time, a hot flare of pride and desire, and Takao slips a hand into Midorima's hair, moving his head so he can capture his lips in a searing kiss. The first time they had done this, pulses racing from a chase, adrenaline guiding them in their actions until they were just a panting mass slumped against a wall in an alleyway, Takao had been surprised at how easily Midorima had acquiesced to let him take the lead. Now, it just causes him to surge forward, licking into Midorima's mouth, pushing him down into a chair so he can move forward and straddle him. 

Midorima isn't big on noise, but Takao has become an expert in what each muffled or cut-off moan means. It's their own language, and he likes to think he's the only person fluent in it. He knows just how to run his fingers down Midorima's sides that that he gets a long, low groan, or how to rub circles into his hip to get a whine that increases in pitch as he keeps going. 

Midorima may have hands born to play the piano, fingers destined to wrap elegantly around a trigger, but Takao's hands were born for _this_ : to play Shin-chan like an instrument. A roll of his hips gets him a soft, hitched breath. Suck on his neck to the point where there is barely a mark, and he'll get a warning growl and a "Takao…" Wrapping his hand around Shin-chan's cock, stroking slowly like he has all the time in the world earns him a breathy pant, similar to the annoyed huff he hears through the earpiece on missions so often. They're all music to his ears, and he relishes each one, repeating over and over until there's nothing in his mind but _Shin-chan_. Some nights it's a game - how long he can draw out the small, teasing touches, until Midorima is writhing underneath him, his body stretched out over the bed, his eyes closed tightly in a last attempt to hold onto his control. It's Takao's goal each time, to get under his skin, to bring Midorima to that point where his control frays, where he knows he's not thinking of anything at all, anything but wondering where the next hit of not enough sensation will be.

Tonight he's impatient - both of them are, judging by the way Midorima's hands grab at his hips - so he wastes little time with foreplay, leaving only a small number of marks for the morning as shirts are thrown to the ground with little thought of their proper care. He always feels accomplished, getting Teikou's best shooter to the point where his eyes see nothing but Takao, where his face, normally so smooth and calm in his concentration, is twisted in pleasure, no thought of hiding emotions any longer. He loves him, in these moments. He loves him anyways, but it is in these moments that he's dangerously close to saying it.

Instead he opens both their pants, lifting his hips just enough to push pants and underwear past knees that he can slot their hips together, Midorima's face closer and closer to wrecked as he trusts in Takao's hands, his own holding Takao's hips against his as he rocks. Takao twists his hand on the upward pull, his hand barely enough for both of them, leaning in to chase the sound Midorima is keeping in his throat out with a kiss.

"C'mon, Shin-chan, talk for me. Let me hear you."

When they're like this, when it's enough, Midorima's mind overrun with sensation and everything else be damned, eloquence is beyond him. "Fuck, _Takao._ " And Takao's heart sings.

The dam is broken; Midorima's head falls onto his shoulder as his hand keeps working. "Please, Takao please. Faster, _more_. Fuck. fuckfuckfuck." His words keep time with Takao's strokes, speeding up until it's just noise, until it breaks, and Takao feels another hot splash on his skin, another mark of a job well done. He focuses solely on himself now, close enough that all it takes is the sound of Shin-chan's breath, slowing in his ear, and the feeling of fingers tightening on his hips before they jerk up in release. Whispers say Midorima was born to shoot, to kill, and there is some pleasure from a job well done, but Takao likes this so much more. There's no need to rush away, not now that they've been partners for so long, that Midorima doesn't immediately get up and leave, tossing him a towel and making him feel like nothing has changed from his old life. But this, Midorima's skin under his palm as he rubs slow circles into his back, soft breaths against his shoulder, is so much better than anything he could have imagined.

"You bought dinner. That means I win."

"Hmph. It only means you were late and I was hungry, honestly."

"Whatever you say, Shin-chan."

Midorima shuts him up with a kiss.


End file.
